by Joyia Marie
I sat down on my futon with a pad of paper and a pen to get my day planned. Yesterday was a wash, but it had had its fun parts with torturing Harold and meeting Aiden. I won’t even think about kissing Aiden but that did replay in my dreams all night long.
Nope, would not be working with the man next door on my loft redo. Too much temptation and I’m not good at resisting temptation. This was why I wore invisible blinders while married to tall, thin, and pasty. It still kills me he was the one tipping out.
Not to brag on myself, but I had opportunities to tip. Every single day I got an invitation to tip. However, did I tip? No, I resisted. Harold, who probably got this one invitation to tip and he couldn’t resist tipping?
Yeah, he’s better be glad the only thing I’ve done to him is leave him to Tonya’s tender mercies. I put a note on my list to call my babies and see how they’re doing. Even when I am doing the writer’s retreat thing, I check in every 24 hours and we’re past that now. I’m sure they’re fine, but a mother’s still gotta check.
I moved to my office area and booted up my laptop in case there were any emails I needed to address. I know, I know, I wouldn’t have to do that if I got one of the new ‘smart phones’ but so far I haven’t seen the need. I have a laptop and I see no need to carry its illegitimate love child in my pocket. All I need from a phone is it to make phone calls. The rest is just nonsense to me.
There was a couple that needed attention like the one from Sonya telling me she had held the publisher off yet again. I had no doubt about that as they know if they push too hard, I might move to another publisher. Randal house was sitting pretty with LV’s help but they were hardly the only game in town.
There was one from my mother telling me she might be back stateside soon. I took that with a grain of salt. Vivian has what I like to call chronological dyslexia, which means that to her soon means anytime between now and the time the Rapture, if I believed in such things, happened. Nevertheless, I would be on the lookout as she was overdue for a visit. I would have to shoot her an email as to my change of location as soon as I knew where my location would be.
I was giving serious thought to decamping when the rehab started. Just looking at Aiden’s place told me that it would be loud and messy. That’s not truly conducive for writing. I’d look into Embassy Suites or Executive Suites to see who had the best long-term rates.
The rest were the usual junk such as spam advertisements advising me they could help my penis larger. That would be a neat trick, if I was interested, which I am not. I’m not even interested in a larger bust. My breasts are not huge, but I’ve never been mistaken for a boy, they did a fine job of feeding my babies, and still are above my waistline so I’m good.
I powered down my laptop and called my lawyer, Mr. Pierce. He’s a nice old guy, semi-retired and usually answers his own phone. One of the reasons he was chosen as LV’s lawyer. The fewer people that know about LV, the better.
That call was short, as he instantly knew the right attorney to call for my divorce. He gave me the number for Ms. Jane Smithfield. I have actually heard of her and I heard she’s a real ball buster. Not that I wanted Harold’s balls busted but it was a nice option to have in reserve. I set an appointment with her assistant for Friday.
I looked at my list and I had made a decent start of the stuff I could do from here. I looked at my watch and I saw it was after nine. Which meant the coast should be clear at the house.
Harold should be at work and the kids at school and the only one at Casa Asshole should be Mrs. Gunderson. I had time to do a run through. , I would do a drive by of Harold’s job just to make sure. I would hate to run into Harold before I was ready.
I went to get my empty suitcase, then remembered a final task. I rebooted my laptop and sent out a mass email to the artsy friends in my contacts. I have them set up as a group to save having to pick them out each time I need to contact all of them at the same time.
Trying to catch them on the phone was an exercise in futility. They would be either communing with their muses or working a minimum-wage keep-body-and-soul-together gig. Undiscovered artists are the next highest represented group after teenagers in the fast food industry.
However, the email was dependable. Even my fellow Luddites check in every now and again. It may take a while, but soon the one I need would appear. The fact I was willing to pay and pay well meant the job would be done quickly and cheaply. I wasn’t looking for an architectural rendering. Just something to show the contractors, so I wouldn’t have to describe my dream space repeatedly.
I left my laptop on standby, then left. I needed to do some edits when I got back and this would save time. I’ll tell you a little secret, the book Sonya and Randall house are waiting for is done. I build a large margin of fudge time into my deadlines due to the kids.
Never know when an emergency would pop up and throw things off schedule. I take pride in the fact I have never missed a deadline. However, publishers and the public are greedy and impatient. The faster you produce, the faster they want you to produce until all you are doing is writing 24/7 and that’s not my deal.
With Harold otherwise occupied lately, I’ve had plenty of time to write. I do it in bed every night while I waited for him to slink his way in. I wasn’t going to confront him about the affair, but I did want him to be aware I was aware of it.
Working late, really? That’s the best he could come up with? There aren’t that many paper-producing crises in the world, but I let it slide. I was hanging in there trying to break the family curse. Ah well, can’t fault a girl for trying.
Anyway, the book is finished and all I need to do is the final edits so this was a good time for me to be away from the house other than the fact it is messing up Harold’s little girlfriend’s plans. As I said, a rough draft I can do in a wind tunnel and that’s about the only place I haven’t written.
I’ve written at soccer practice, but not games because I need to cheer and only at the practices where it wasn’t my turn to ‘help’. I giggled as I wondered if Harold had gotten to ‘help’ yesterday. I’ve written while waiting in the carpool lane, during art class, and piano lessons. I’m a have-laptop-will-write kind of mom.
I grabbed the rest of my coffee and my empty suitcase and headed out. Aiden’s truck was gone, but his bike was there. I managed to keep my hands to myself, but that didn’t prevent a little eye fondling of his motorcycle.
I sighed as I pulled off. I would love to hit him up for a ride. However, the thought of my still married thighs wrapped around his single thighs made complicated look like a walk in the park.
A short time later, I pulled in front of the house. Mrs. Gunderson parked on the street as always. I’ve tried to get her park in the driveway to save her the extra steps, but she’s had her ideas about her place and for some reason parking in the driveway is verboten for housekeepers. I’ve learned not to argue with her about these things.
Here’s the history of Mrs. Gunderson for your edification. After the twins were born, I bought them home. A month of playing full time mommy and with my house a wreck, I was so stir crazy, I was about to chew off my own arm to escape. Then, like manna from heaven, I got an invitation to an exhibit of Grandma Gert’s work. They wanted a member of the family there as a representative.
You probably know her as Antananarivo. Yes, that Antananarivo. I know and I can’t draw a stick figure and neither can my mother, but she’s made her mark in photography, which is at least in the visual arts field.
I’m not sure why Grandma Gert chose the name Antananarivo, the capital of Madagascar, as her ‘nom de paint’ but I guess she figured Gertie Jenkins didn’t have the same ring. The art world is just like any other world in that marketing is everything.
Antananarivo is the exotic, romantic painter of huge moving landscapes. The name Gertie Jenkins sounds like someone who would paint toothless old men playing music on moonshine jugs or worse, those creepy big-eyed children. Grandma Gert saw no reason to be a star
ving artist if there was an alternative.
Mom and I didn’t get the visual art gene or the handcrafted visual art gene if you want to be precise. Aunt Josephine and her pottery? Let’s just say there are those who wished she went into a non-visual field but you gotta follow your muse. I think Aunt Josephine’s muse is depressed and would benefit from a bracing round of ECT, electro-convulsive therapy, but what are you going to do?
Anyway, back to Mrs. Gunderson. I thrust the twins into Harold’s not so willing arms with the bottles of breast milk I had expressed for the occasion, put on my glad rags, and went. The crowd was eclectic as to be expected, but none were as eclectic as the sturdy German woman standing in front of ‘Days/Nights’, a sweeping landscape of the Appalachian mountains, with tears running down her full Slavic cheeks.
Picture it, a woman who looks like Mrs. Doubtfire but not as sexy standing in front of a painting crying. Normally something like that would have me headed for the nearest glass of champagne and as far away from the weeping German woman as possible.
I guess motherhood softened me and instead I went over to see if I could help. It was obvious nobody else would. This is the art world. For all anyone knew she could be a performance artist and getting involved could lead to being a lot more involved than you were comfortable with.
Long story short, Mrs. Gunderson is a frustrated artist. Are there any other kind? She had saved her pennies from her job as a housekeeper in Germany to see the works of Grandma Gert in person. A sweet story until you get to the part where her pennies only got her a one-way ticket. So she was currently stranded in Texas about as far from Germany and Mr. Gunderson as she could be.
The last I put in on faith. I’m not sure there is a Mr. Gunderson. The one time I tried to gently probe as to his validity, location or even a first name, she gave me a darkling look that encouraged me to treat Mr. Gunderson as a non-issue and thus far, he has been. He’s never come looking for her to my knowledge so he must not be any more concerned with her whereabouts than she is with his.
Anyway, there she was a lovely German woman, in need a job and me a new mother in need of some help so a partnership was born. I asked Harold about it without going into too many details. Harold said yes without asking too many questions. So I hired Mrs. Gunderson and she’s been with me every since. I say with me because she works for me, not Harold, or the family. She takes great pride in the fact she works for the granddaughter of Antananarivo.
She cooks, she cleans, she does the laundry, and she even teaches the children art on Tuesdays and Thursdays. There is a reason she is a frustrated artist. She has great technique. For those not in the know, ‘great technique’ is code for no talent, no passion, no whatever it is that is the difference between an artist and a human Xerox machine.
However, she is good with the children. Their art education is moving along at a pace. Tuesdays, she takes them to various museums where they copy old masters as art students have for centuries. Thursdays, she gives them something to draw, then analyzes their technique. She is a stern taskmistress and I’ve seen some real improvement in the children’s work.
I’m not sure if either of the twins is destined for a career as an artist, but I parent the way I was parented. I had art lessons for years until Grandma Gert told my mom to stop torturing me. It was obvious I couldn’t draw a bucket of water from a well.
I have always been thankful to Grandma Gert for that. Thankfully, the twins are better than I am and Tonya does a mean caricature. I don’t know if that is talent or just a reflection of her general snarkiness. The jury is still out.
Chapter Twenty: Helen
I walked in the house after parking my minivan in the garage. I had driven by the paper factory and saw Harold’s car, but in case his mother drove by, I didn’t want her to give him a heads up. This presupposes that Harold had told his parents that I had flown the coop and that was doubtful this early in the game.
Harold is a master of avoiding. This is why I really thought we’d ride this affair thing out until I pushed the issue. The only way Harold would tell his parents is if he was forced into it and things would have to be desperate to force him into it. He would know he had a brisk round of ‘I told you so’s coming.
Harold’s parents were less than pleased when he brought home a writer as his blushing bride. Once his father got over the fact Harold had actually brought home a girl, (no, Sonya wasn’t alone in wondering which side his bread was buttered on), he had to deal with the whole writer bit. To Harold Sr., artists are a bunch of slackers, too lazy to get a real job. Yeah, we bonded on sight.
Harold’s mother had some weird fascination with the question of whether or not I was a hippy and the fact I probably was. I don’t know what that’s all about. I’ve never worn tie-dye in my life, but I have worn ponchos and that seems to be enough to qualify in her book.
Anyway, Harold Sr. finally realized a female writer was better than what might be behind door number two with his son. We got married and then when the twins were born, I was the new fair-haired girl. That was a neat trick with my jet-black hair, but you get the idea.
The fact the twins are the spitting images of Harold’s mother, Tonya, and Harold, Tony except for my eyes seems to be the icing on the cake. I’m sure if Harold told his parents that he was retaining custody of his progeny, they would throw me a lovely going away party. After all my work here is done, and that would let them mold the twins into their image.
Ha, like there’s a chance in hell of that happening. When I said my work here is done, that doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere. The twins are their own people, both by nature and by nurture. Any molding to be done would have had to be done long ago and that ship has sailed.
If this situation had occurred when the twins were younger, I would have grabbed them and taken them to whatever far-flung location my mother was currently taking pictures. Better malaria than the chance the older Petersons turning my babies into Harold 2.0.
Mrs. Gunderson looked up with a guilty look on her face. She had what looked like Tonya’s soccer uniform in her hand. Mrs. Gunderson is allowed to do the laundry that is in the hamper in the bathroom and Tonya’s uniform has never made the trip. Usually, I make Tonya find it and wash it before game day.
I peeked up the stairs and saw the doors to the twins’ rooms open and a pile of dirty clothes on the landing. I gave Mrs. Gunderson a chiding look and she actually tried to stuff the uniform behind her back like a guilty child. I just smiled and shook my head.
“You come back,” Mrs. Gunderson said in her broken English. Mrs. Gunderson has been here 12 years that I know of but she still talks like she’s a Cro-Magnon man. I hated to disappoint her and turn her hopeful expression sad but stuff happens.
“No, Mrs. Gunderson, I’m just here to get some more of my things,” I said gently.
“You leave for good,” she said stoically.
I hate disappointing Mrs. Gunderson. We’ve never talked about it, but something about her face tells me it wasn’t all sunshine and roses for my housekeeper. She seems content being my housekeeper and the children’s art teacher, but I can’t help but remember a frustrated artist standing in front of my grandmother’s painting, crying.
“Yes, Mrs. Gunderson,” I said gently not elaborating.
I’m not sure what happened between Mrs. Gunderson and Mr. Gunderson, if he exists, so I’m not comfortable trotting out my marital woes in front of her. I also have to keep in mind this woman will be cooking for Harold so I really don’t need her carrying a grudge. It would be hard to explain to the police why my housekeeper poisoned my husband out of misplaced loyalty to me or to the memory of my grandmother.
She shrugged stoically, turned around, and executed a shot that would be praised in the NBA as she added Tonya’s uniform to the pile in the landing. Mrs. Gunderson is a woman of many talents and I’m sure had she got here when she was younger, she would have had a promising career in the WNBA. She definitely had the height for it.
/> “I come with you,” she said and stood there at attention ready to leave immediately. Her expression seemed to express the belief the only thing I needed from that house was her and now that she was coming, what was the hold up?
“No, Mrs. Gunderson,” I said soothingly grabbing her hard hands in mine, “I need you to stay here for the children.” I would have mentioned Harold but I didn’t see him as a major selling point to her staying.
“The children come too,” she said simply and that answered a niggling question that had bothered me for years. Whether there were any little Gundersons back in Germany with Mr. Gunderson, if he exists. Her answer told me she wouldn’t have left her babies and now I had to explain why I left mine.
“No, this is the children’s home. It’s where their friends are and their school is,” I said, leaving out the part about me putting a spoke in Harold’s wheels with the lovely Jillian.
Mrs. Gunderson gave a huge sigh and I held my breath, not sure, what it meant. It could mean, the children are on their own. It could mean, then you need to move back. It could have meant anything and her answer would determine mine.
Mrs. Gunderson was my failsafe with Harold. She wouldn’t let anything happen to my babies and she had my cell number. I could leave the children here if she would be here, but not if she wasn’t.
Mrs. Gunderson looked at me for a long moment, then she grabbed my empty suitcase. “Okay, you give, I pack,” she said and I knew it would be fine. I appreciated the help. Mrs. Gunderson had seen me pack and knew it was not my forte.
I detoured to the kitchen to get a refill on my coffee and my eyes bugged out at the strength when I took a sip. I looked at Mrs. Gunderson and she just shrugged and said, “Mr. Peterson,” in explanation.